and cunning Abu Nidal had refined to an art. He had kidnapped them all; not to force the release of political prisoners, not to trade for money or arms, but to ransom Palestine.
“And if you’re wrong about Abu Nidal holding the hostages?”
“I have it on good authority that I’m not,” Moncrieff replied, quietly confident.
“State your source, Mr. Moncrieff,” she said, as if challenging one of her students.
“Chairman Arafat,” he said, playing the card.
Her eyes widened at his sagacity. “I had a professor like you once. No matter how I argued, he always had an answer.”
“You didn’t learn very much.”
“But he did.”
Moncrieff laughed. “My White House contact has to know,” he said, purposely invoking his sanction.
“He’ll have to wait until tonight.”
“I’ll be here,” he said, taking her hand.
They walked along the surf to the staircase and climbed to the palisades where Katifa’s Mercedes was parked, then drove to her apartment on Tamar Mallat in the Al Fatwa quarter. They spent the afternoon reliving old times and drinking araki, a sweet local liqueur distilled from wine. They talked for hours before their words gave way to desire, before Moncrieff gently pressed his lips to hers. Katifa had had no interest in having a lover since her brother’s death. The self-denial served as a form of punishment and emotional insulation; but the Saudi had always been a special and reassuring presence, and she surrendered willingly.
Soon they lay naked on her bed—Katifa lanquid and adrift in the sensations that began surging through her like gentle bursts of current; Moncrieff exploring the planes of her smooth torso,tending to every square inch of copper velvet, until her flesh quivered and the first explosion broke over her; and as the second rose, he brought their glistening bodies together, timing his entrance to the instant it crested. Katifa gasped at the sudden surge in intensity, lost in the way it used to be and hadn’t been since they were last lovers.
THAT EVENING, they drove to the Turk Hospital on De Mazraa, where Katifa picked up a package at the pharmacy. Sporadic flashes of gunfire winked in the darkness as the Mercedes crossed the Green Line at the Patriarche Hoyek checkpoint, heading north on Avenue Charles Helou and up the coastal motorway to Casino du Liban.
A group of Palestinian sentries met the Mercedes at the entrance and escorted Moncrieff and Katifa down the gangway to the dock.
Hasan, the terrorist who had been her brother’s lieutenant, signaled with a flashlight that they had arrived. The throb of diesels rose as the gunboat emerged from the blackness and nosed into the slip, slowing with a noisy reversal of its engines. Armed sentries were deployed on deck. Then Abu Nidal came from below, joining Moncrieff, Katifa, and Hasan on the dock. He had been grooming Hasan to assume leadership of the casino-based group, and gestured for him to accompany them as they walked along the rows of empty slips.
“No,” Nidal said after Moncrieff had revealed the three-way proposal. The terrorist had listened without comment, his expression noncommital throughout. “We don’t want another territory,” he said calmly. “We want our homeland. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“I’m aware of that,” Moncrieff replied, undaunted. “As I explained, this would be a significant step in that direction. I strongly urge you to consider it.”
“I’ll say this once,” Nidal responded evenly. “The currency you seek will be used to ransom Palestine, not to lease Libyan desert.”
“ Unoccupied Libyan desert,” Moncrieff corrected, with the cool detachment of a diplomat brokering a treaty. “A viable alternative to living in police states; an end to violence and the slaughter of your young.”
“And the destruction of our homes, and confiscation of property,and demeaning identity cards,” Katifa interjected, bitterly rattling off the list of injustices.
“You
“And if you’re wrong about Abu Nidal holding the hostages?”
“I have it on good authority that I’m not,” Moncrieff replied, quietly confident.
“State your source, Mr. Moncrieff,” she said, as if challenging one of her students.
“Chairman Arafat,” he said, playing the card.
Her eyes widened at his sagacity. “I had a professor like you once. No matter how I argued, he always had an answer.”
“You didn’t learn very much.”
“But he did.”
Moncrieff laughed. “My White House contact has to know,” he said, purposely invoking his sanction.
“He’ll have to wait until tonight.”
“I’ll be here,” he said, taking her hand.
They walked along the surf to the staircase and climbed to the palisades where Katifa’s Mercedes was parked, then drove to her apartment on Tamar Mallat in the Al Fatwa quarter. They spent the afternoon reliving old times and drinking araki, a sweet local liqueur distilled from wine. They talked for hours before their words gave way to desire, before Moncrieff gently pressed his lips to hers. Katifa had had no interest in having a lover since her brother’s death. The self-denial served as a form of punishment and emotional insulation; but the Saudi had always been a special and reassuring presence, and she surrendered willingly.
Soon they lay naked on her bed—Katifa lanquid and adrift in the sensations that began surging through her like gentle bursts of current; Moncrieff exploring the planes of her smooth torso,tending to every square inch of copper velvet, until her flesh quivered and the first explosion broke over her; and as the second rose, he brought their glistening bodies together, timing his entrance to the instant it crested. Katifa gasped at the sudden surge in intensity, lost in the way it used to be and hadn’t been since they were last lovers.
THAT EVENING, they drove to the Turk Hospital on De Mazraa, where Katifa picked up a package at the pharmacy. Sporadic flashes of gunfire winked in the darkness as the Mercedes crossed the Green Line at the Patriarche Hoyek checkpoint, heading north on Avenue Charles Helou and up the coastal motorway to Casino du Liban.
A group of Palestinian sentries met the Mercedes at the entrance and escorted Moncrieff and Katifa down the gangway to the dock.
Hasan, the terrorist who had been her brother’s lieutenant, signaled with a flashlight that they had arrived. The throb of diesels rose as the gunboat emerged from the blackness and nosed into the slip, slowing with a noisy reversal of its engines. Armed sentries were deployed on deck. Then Abu Nidal came from below, joining Moncrieff, Katifa, and Hasan on the dock. He had been grooming Hasan to assume leadership of the casino-based group, and gestured for him to accompany them as they walked along the rows of empty slips.
“No,” Nidal said after Moncrieff had revealed the three-way proposal. The terrorist had listened without comment, his expression noncommital throughout. “We don’t want another territory,” he said calmly. “We want our homeland. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“I’m aware of that,” Moncrieff replied, undaunted. “As I explained, this would be a significant step in that direction. I strongly urge you to consider it.”
“I’ll say this once,” Nidal responded evenly. “The currency you seek will be used to ransom Palestine, not to lease Libyan desert.”
“ Unoccupied Libyan desert,” Moncrieff corrected, with the cool detachment of a diplomat brokering a treaty. “A viable alternative to living in police states; an end to violence and the slaughter of your young.”
“And the destruction of our homes, and confiscation of property,and demeaning identity cards,” Katifa interjected, bitterly rattling off the list of injustices.
“You
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